The Road to Redemption
by MistWraith
Summary: A weary and distraught Sam reflects on the events of season 4, on his brother and on the road ahead. Tag to 4.22. One-shot. Rated T for some language. Please R&R.


**Disclaimer**: Every morning I get up and they still aren't mine. Darn.

**Summary**: Post-4.22, Sam reflects on his _annus horribilis_ and the road ahead. I know: it's practically season 5. I got blocked on _one_ paragraph and it took forever to get started again! _*facepalms*_

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**THE ROAD TO REDEMPTION**

BY: **MistWraith**

The blinking lights of the motel sign, two letters flickering in a futile attempt to do their part, were easily seen through the threadbare pieces of cloth that passed for curtains at the rundown motel they had finally stopped at, Dean too exhausted to keep driving. Unable to sleep, Sam stared at them as if they held all the secrets of the universe. Or at least, the way out of the mess he had created.

They had driven—okay, _raced_--away from the convent in Maryland. Sam had let himself be dragged into the motel in much the same way he had—finally—let himself be Deanhandled out of the ruins of St. Mary's Convent. Dean had kept his head; only Sam had been enthralled by the approach of the Fallen Angel. Then again, Sam noted sardonically, Dean was rapidly proving himself to be the only Winchester with a brain.

He rubbed wearily at his eyes. So much, so much, and all on him. So many things said and done, a bottomless Pit of stupidity and arrogance, an endless ocean, and he was drowning, drowning—and right now, he desperately hoped his brother had a glimmer about what to do, because Sam was fresh out of ideas. Which was probably a good idea, considering how lousy his ideas had been for a long time now.

So many things he needed to say, to apologize for. His mind skittered away from the 800-pound Lord of Hell sitting in the corner. _Apocalypse now, Apocalypse no. Nononononono._

Tired as Dean was when they'd gotten to the motel, he had still taken charge. "Bossy" Sam had called him once, way back when. But Dean wasn't really bossy—he'd always listened to his brother and he'd gone along with Sam's ideas as often as Sam had gone along with his—he just couldn't shake a lifetime of being a big brother. He had gotten Sam settled on a bed, given his little brother some aspirin for the obvious headache and then had started toward the door of the room.

Panic had surged through Sam's every fiber. Leaving. Dean was _leaving_! For a moment, he felt as if he couldn't breathe, then there had been a hand at the back of neck and a worried voice breaking through his panic.

"_Sam? Sam! What the hell, Sammy? What's wrong?"_

_Sam had felt his heart rate slow down and he'd gulped in some air. He was finally able to stutter out, "D-Dean? Where," he cleared his throat, "where are you going? It's, it's dangerous…" his voice trailed off and he waved one hand at nothing in particular._

_Dean sighed. "Sam, it's dangerous now everywhere. But starving isn't going to help us any. I haven't eaten anything since before--," he stopped, apparently reluctant to mention their last meeting before they both ended up in the convent. Then he hurried on. "Well, just before. And what you've been eating…." He stopped when Sam winced and shrugged. "I saw a vending machine outside. I'm just gonna get us something. I'll be right back."_

Thinking back on it now, Sam dropped his head, so far beyond embarrassed there wasn't a word for it. _Weak._ He had called Dean _weak_. The demon-blood junkie and demon's bitch, who went into mini-hysteria because his brother was leaving the room to go to the damn _vending_ machine, called said brother weak. The brother who'd carried his family from the time he was five years old, who had always been there whenever Sam had needed him.

Who had survived forty years in Hell and was still actually functional. _Yeah, and just how long was it that __**you**__ held out in your hallucination in Bobby's panic room? If I'm remembering correctly, I think you were freaking begging __**before**__ Alastair even touched you!_

He scrubbed a hand over his face. He could apologize for everything he'd said, but how would he convince Dean that _this_ time he really meant it, when he'd "apologized" before—"Gee, I didn't mean it, Dean, you know that. I've only said it a thousand times"—and Dean knew damn well by now that he _had_ meant it? How could he convince Dean that _this _time, he'd finally realized the truth? How did he make up for choking his brother and for choosing a damn demon over the one person who had always been a constant in his life?

He had always loved his brother, even if he forgot that at times, but it took this whole sorry year, and the resulting disaster, to realize he had stopped respecting Dean when he was in his teens. He hadn't been thinking clearly during the hunt that had taken them back to the high school, but looking at those memories of his time there now, he saw how everything had run from Dean to him. He searched the images of the past carefully but could not find a trace of any affection or respect going the other way and he felt almost sick with shame.

His English teacher had said what some part of him so desperately wanted to hear: That he was special, and better than the hunting life, better than his family, and certainly better than the brother who had (or so he'd thought) mindlessly, _pathetically_, followed his father. Ruby, damn her, had told him the same thing. Now that he thought about it, _every_ demon had, in one way or another. Even the crossroads demon he had confronted with the Colt, she hadn't insulted him, she had insulted _Dean_.

Damn! Hell had played them both, for years. Why hadn't he seen it before? The way the demons kept playing on his ego and arrogance, his feeling of superiority, telling him he was special. Father Gil telling him he had all those leadership qualities. Lilith pretending he had her on the run.

All the while they tore Dean down. _"Sloppy, needy Dean._ Meg in his body telling Dean how much of a failure he was, that he hadn't been able to save their father and he wouldn't be able to save Sam. Azazel, damn him, talking about how the family didn't need Dean the way he needed them. Ruby in her old form, dissing Dean to his face.

All so that the "righteous man" would make the deal to save his brother and send his own soul to Hell where he could break the first seal. And so that the not-so-righteous-arrogant-gullible-moron—_also known as Sasquatch Winchester, who apparently sits on his damn brains these days!_—could break the last one.

Not that he and Dean were equally guilty, though. Hell, no. Figuratively _and_ literally. Dean hadn't even known there _were_ seals when he was in Hell, and he only broke after being sliced and diced 24/7 for thirty freaking years, while he, Sam, could have, and _should_ have, stopped at any damn time, especially after his brother was miraculously returned to him. Instead, he listened to no one except his demon BFF and, oh yeah, the seductive whisperings of his own ego. Hell, he even knew better than prophecy, the word of God, because it didn't matter worth a damn that _Dean_ was supposed to stop the Apocalypse; Sammy knew that it really should have been _him_ God chose, not sloppy, needy Dean. After all, didn't Ruby, Azazel and Lilith tell him so?

He groaned softly, not wanting to wake Dean. How did he ever make up for being such an insufferable ass? And it had got even worse: His mind drifted back to the short conversation he and Dean had had, when Dean came back with this arms full of bags of chips, pretzels, Wing Dings and soda.

"_Dean," Sam asked finally, desperate to break the tension between them, "how did you find me."_

"_Castiel." Dean had responded shortly. Then he'd looked troubled. "I hope he's okay. He disobeyed orders to get me to you."_

_Sam was puzzled. "Why? I mean, why would that be against orders? I thought the angels would want me stopped."_

_Dean shrugged. "Most of them do, according to Zach the Asshat. It's just the 'sernior management'"—Sam could practically __**see**__ the quotes around the words—"wanted the damn thing to start."_

_Stunned, Sam barely managed to squeak out, "What the hell for?"_

"_Because they think it's time, because they think they can win. And if a few billion humans get toasted in the process, hey, everyone left will be back in Eden. Or some such shit." Sam could hear the bitterness in Dean's voice._

"_But…I thought that's why they pulled you out, so you could stop it!"_

"_Yeah, well, see, Sammy. That's not really what the prophecy said—just what they let me think, so I wouldn't freak out, I guess. I'm not supposed to stop it from starting, I'm supposed to stop if __**after**__ it starts, by __**taking**__ out Lucifer. How's that for a hunt?"_

"_Take out __**Lucifer**__? How are you supposed to do that?"_

"_No idea, Sammy. They're a little short on details. Or explanations why a nobody special human would be able to take down the Grand Poobah of Hell."_

Sam's first impulse had been to try to convince Dean that he wasn't "a nobody special human" but he knew it wouldn't help the situation, or that Dean would even believe it. He could just hear Dean's response now: "Yeah? Well, not according to my brother." Sam would have cut his tongue off, if he could just have taken back so much of what he'd said to Dean this past year.

He lay still, his fists clenched. It just didn't seem fair. _He'd_ screwed up and now _Dean_ had to fight Lucifer. Sure, he hadn't known Lilith was the last seal, but everything else….Yeah, Ruby was lying and playing him, but big newsflash, Winchester: she was a fucking _demon_. Lies, deception, manipulation, hell, it's what they do, asshole. She'd laid a trap for him, but _he_ chose to walk into it. No matter who said, "Do not enter. Wrong way. Go back!"

And along the way, he'd compromised every principal he'd ever had, he let his worse traits run the show and he'd driven a wedge between himself and the one person in the universe who had always been on his side. The Sam who had, two years ago, insisted that Dean promise to kill him if he went dark would run screaming from the Sam who had walked out of a motel room, leaving his brother gasping for air on the floor.

"Sammy, you ever planning on getting any sleep?"

Sam jumped slightly at the sound of his brother's voice breaking the silence without warning. He grimaced guiltily, wondering if he'd kept Dean awake somehow. "How do you know I haven't?"

"'Cause you were awake when I drifted off and awake the last two times I woke up and awake now. I'm sensing a pattern here."

Sam thought he caught a hint of humor in Dean's voice and he relaxed slightly. At least, he hadn't destroyed their relationship completely. Though Dean had been more silent than usual, more distant. _Well, that can be fixed. No matter how hard or long I have to work at it!_

He could hear the rustling of the covers on the other bed and could just make out the silhouette of his brother as Dean pushed himself up onto one elbow. "Listen, Sam, what's done is done. Not saying there wasn't anything to be learned; there sure as hell was." There was silence for a moment then Dean said so softly Sam had to strain to hear it. "Or things I wish I hadn't heard or seen."

Sam winced.

"But you know, there's no going back, Sammy. I wish I could take back what I did for those ten years in Hell, but I can't. And you can't undo this last year. So, you got two choices, bro. You can crawl into a corner and sit there crying over spilled beer--."

"Milk."

"Sam," Dean said with a hint of exasperation, "why would I give a _damn_ what happens to some milk? I sure as hell wouldn't cry over it!"

Miserable as he felt, Sam could barely keep a smile off his face. It was just so _Dean_. And, damn, but he'd missed that, while he busy was following along the path Ruby and Lilith had laid out for him, all the while being absolutely sure that no one was the boss of him, but him. Telling the demon bitches to fuck off, _that_ would have been actually being the one in control.

"_Or_," Dean's tone practically challenged Sam to interrupt again, "you can accept everything you did and everything you screwed up and you can move forward. I realized, after that whole mess with Alastair, that I could let the bastard, let _Hell_, beat me, let them make me quit, or I could fight back. Accept that I can't change the past or what I'd done, but I sure as hell could change the damn future! I could save as many people as possible, I could gum up the works, I could kill as many of the evil sons-of-bitches as I could get in my sights.

"Same for you, Sammy. No going back. It's done and, yeah, there's gonna be fallout. Big time for the world," Dean seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he added, "and for us. But you can either work to make amends, or you can give up and let them win. Up to you. And I'm going back to sleep. You should give it a try sometime tonight."

Silence descended again. Sam wasn't sure if Dean had really dozed off, or if his older brother was just lying there in the dark waiting for Sam to. For his part, Sam was more awake than ever, Dean's words and his own thoughts tumbling over each other like the numbers in a bingo cage.

If the road to Hell is paved with good intentions…maybe the road to redemption is paved with self-knowledge. If there was something the Winchester brothers both excelled at, it was the ability to see themselves through a distorted mirror. Except in reverse: Dean, with his persistent refusal to see his own worth, his uniqueness, and with his relentless hiding of his humility behind the cocky façade; Sam, with his equal blindness to his own faults: arrogance, temper, sense of superiority, the certainty that his choices were always the right ones and his determination—so like his father's!--to get whatever it was he wanted and the Devil take the hindmost. Which apparently, the Devil now would get the chance to do.

_Oh, and yeah, let's not forget the inability to take an insult. At the end, you were almost going to stop because you heard Dean calling—and then you killed Lilith because she called you a wuss! What the fuck, Winchester?_

No matter how much he'd like to punch himself out right now, Dean was right, though: he _could_ crawl into a hole and engage in an endless pity party, or he could devote whatever time he had left in this world to trying to thwart the Armageddon he had jumpstarted.

He glanced over at his brother, just making out his form on the bed across from him, and a tiny bit of lightness entered his heart. Perhaps he was not beyond redemption, if God still trusted him with the protection of the prophecy's "righteous man," the one destined to fight Lucifer.

Then again, he had _finally_ figured out that his path to redemption had _always_ been through his brother.

Closing his eyes, knowing the road would be hard but that, for the first time in a long time, the glimmer of light ahead was dawn at last, Sam fell asleep.

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**A/N**: I'm looking forward to season 5. I think Sam's redemption arc (as Kripke has talked about) could be amazing for the character, and I'd like to see the growth I've seen in Dean in season 4 continue. Hope you liked the story.


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